Salvation?
Laughter echoed through the radio.
Miles spoke calmly, his tone edged with cold detachment: "I am neither a saint nor a savior. Even if I were, how could I save others without first saving myself?"
Talk of saving a life being more virtuous than building a seven-tiered pagoda—it was a poetic ideal. But who had ever truly seen such a pagoda?
"I'm no saint either," Isaac said, his self-deprecating smile barely masking his inner turmoil. "But exchanging someone else's life for my own survival? I fear I'd be damned to hell for it."
"This," Miles replied, his voice sharp as ice, "is already hell."
Miles knew all about Isaac.
Isaac—once Chicago's most renowned martial arts master, mentor to countless students.
Through days of careful observation, Miles had concluded that Isaac was trustworthy, a man who retained a shred of humanity and reason in this desolate world.
Otherwise, Isaac would have long since sacrificed the hundred-plus people under his care for a few measly roast chickens.
If the opportunity presented itself, Miles intended to recruit him.
The number of zombies in Cloud City was finite. Even if all the remaining residents succumbed to infection, the total would amount to no more than a few hundred.
For Miles, a few hundred zombies weren't enough.
He needed to consolidate power, build an alliance, and expand beyond Cloud City—eventually taking over the nearby neighborhoods and residential areas.
Whether the methods were cruel or not… Miles no longer had the luxury to ponder.
The numbers didn't lie. Only five percent of humanity had survived globally, and even among them, less than a third might withstand the relentless onslaught of the undead.
Miles's intervention or lack thereof would not change the eventual outcome. The survivors' fate was already sealed; it was merely a question of time.
After a pause, Miles said coolly, "If you're willing, I can offer you favorable conditions. At the very least, you wouldn't have to endure this cursed cold any longer."
Within his mental space lay a wealth of resources—endless supplies of fuel, charcoal, and alcohol. If Isaac agreed, Miles would not hesitate to share a portion.
"What about them?" Isaac asked, hesitating.
"You need to understand," Miles responded, his tone steady but unyielding. "Even if I were God, I couldn't bring everyone to paradise."
Even Buddha refuses to save the poor. So why should I?
"You're suggesting I turn them all into zombies, aren't you?" Isaac's voice was laced with anger. "I'm sorry—I can't do that."
Ryan, standing nearby, was visibly irked.
Since falling under Miles's sway, Ryan had grown fiercely loyal, intolerant of any perceived disrespect toward his leader—even from himself.
"You stubborn old fool," Ryan growled. "If the day comes when there are no zombies left in Cloud City, these people's food supply will be cut off. Whether you like it or not, they'll turn on each other. And trust me, they won't spare a second to thank you."
A month of relentless hardship had hardened Ryan's heart. He understood the grim truth: Miles owed no one charity.
Isaac faltered, doubt creeping into his expression.
Ryan was right.
If Miles ever ceased his provisions, these people wouldn't feel gratitude for the times he saved them. They'd harbor resentment—maybe even hatred.
Survival had stripped humanity bare. Once driven by hunger, morality would dissolve in an instant.
Without Miles's supplies, the undead would still claim lives, but the living would have no second chance.
A shriek broke Isaac's reverie.
"Someone's been infected!"
Isaac rushed back to the commotion, abandoning the conversation with Miles.
In the center of the group, a newly infected resident lay on the ground, encircled by a crowd armed with makeshift weapons.
Their faces betrayed no sympathy—only a twisted kind of exhilaration.
The zombie was quickly subdued, and the group broke into fervent discussion.
"Another roast chicken! Amazing!"
"Amazing? With over a hundred of us, we won't even get a bite of the skin."
"Did you hear about Anthony's squad last week? They caught over thirty zombies. Thirty chickens! Just thinking about it makes my mouth water."
In a world starved of sustenance, the prospect of three chickens in a week was a luxury almost unfathomable.
Before the apocalypse, many residents had succumbed to the cold and hunger in their homes. A single roast chicken might have saved countless lives.
"What if…" someone in the crowd suggested tentatively, "we split into smaller groups? Ten people per team, earning their share based on their own efforts. That'd be better than this mess."
But the surviving women in the group protested vehemently.
"What about us? We're women—we can't handle fighting zombies like you can!"
The able-bodied wanted independence, while the weaker members feared abandonment. Arguments erupted.
Isaac watched silently, his heart heavy with despair.
Finally, a few strong men stepped forward.
"Mr. Isaac, it's not that we want to split up. But look at this situation—why should we do all the work and share equally with those who contribute nothing?"
"Exactly. If zombies run out, or Miles cuts us off, we'll all starve anyway. Why should we let others drag us down?"
"Everyone for themselves," another declared coldly. "We've got the strength to survive—why let them hold us back?"
At the apocalypse's onset, Isaac had been a beacon of hope, a leader people clung to in their desperation.
But as reality set in, they realized the apocalypse was not a passing storm—it was their new, unending reality.
Survival now demanded shedding dead weight.
"This is heartless," Isaac said, his voice tinged with sorrow. "We're a team. Isn't this too cruel? There's not much food, but it's enough to keep us alive if we're careful."
Isaac's resistance faltered. He sighed heavily. "We just need to be frugal. We'll manage…"
But he knew deep down—without the strong to protect them, the weak would never last.
"What if Miles stops supplying us?"
"What if there are no more zombies?"
"You know Anthony's team isn't finding zombies. They're making them. We didn't want to stoop to that level, but we need to survive too!"
The barrage of questions silenced Isaac.
He couldn't control their actions—let alone the darker truths of human nature.
Without warning, several men broke off, forming their own squad.
"Take me with you!"
A pretty woman grabbed one man's arm, her smile coy and hopeful.
"You?"
The man looked her over, his eyes darkening with desire.
"Fine, but you know what that means, right?"
The woman giggled coquettishly, clinging to him. "Oh, you're so naughty. I've only ever been with my husband before…"